Help
by Blue-eyesThropp
Summary: After Cuba, Charles and Erik go their separate ways. However, when their paths cross again, Erik has to face the consequences of his own actions, and Charles might have to admit that he isn't as strong as he believes himself to be- that, perhaps, he just needs some help. (songfic to Hurt's "Help", set between FC and DoFP)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Greetings, mutant brothers and sisters! So, this is my… fourth X-men fanfic (written in bed, on my phone on a Sunday morning)****and I'm really loving writing about these characters!**

**Basically, this story was heavily inspired by a picture (a kind of prompt, I guess) I saw a while ago on tumblr of Charles and Erik. Underneath it, the artist had posted the lyrics to one of my favourite songs: Help, by Hurts, which I had already associated with Erik and Charles for some reason. That picture evoked so many emotions in me, so I decided to write this fanfiction about it. I wish really I could find the artist, but I forgot their tumblr name. If anyone happens to find the picture, please let me know so I can credit them as my source of inspiration.  
>Right, now that that's done, I hope everyone enjoys my story. But, regardless of whether you loved it or hated it, please drop me a line in the review box, and, if you happen to like it, I do not object to favouriting and following ;-)<br>Lots of love  
>Blue-eyes Thropp<strong>

**Disclaimer: I do not own X-men or any of the characters. This fanfiction was based on a drawing by a wonderful tumblr artist whose name I have sadly forgotten, but who will be credited as soon as I find their page again. For entertainment and personal enjoyment only. No profit made (pah! I wish!)**

**Summary: After Cuba, Charles and Erik go their separate ways. However, when their paths cross again, Erik has to face the consequences of his own actions, and Charles might have to admit that he isn't as strong as he believes himself to be- that, perhaps, he just needs some help. Set to "Help" by Hurts. Slightly AU, not slash. Based kind of on DoFP as well as FC, though more on the latter. Rated T just to be sure, because of drugs and injury and stuff...**

Help- An X-men fanfiction

Chapter I

"I can't feel my legs…" Charles' voice cracked as he repeated his plaintive statement for a third time.

The foursome crouched around him were silent; he saw only open mouths and eyes gaping in fear above him. They began to slide in and out of focus as he heard Moira whisper, "Are you sure?" in a voice filled with shock bordering on terror.

"I don't…" Charles began, trying to assess whether he was indeed going numb or not, "I don't… I can't…" He could not continue; his head was beginning to swim and his vision to blur. The pain in his lower back was a searing heat, but underneath that, he was sure there was nothing. He felt Hank, Sean and Alex loosen their grip on his arms and shoulders, and he thought he sensed Hank recoiling just a bit.

Through clouded hearing, he believed he heard fragments of Moira beginning to shriek. "Oh my God… Charles… Charles, stay with me! Somebody help!"

"Moira…" Charles heard Hank's deep, soothing voice break the woman's cries for help, to no avail. Moira broke into tears of helplessness, and the others, too, were soon affected by her sobs. A wave of agitation spread through the four people behind the injured telepath.

Between Moira's "I'm sorry Charles. I'm so sorry… I never meant… Oh, Charles, I'm so, so sorry," Sean's heavy, anxious breathing and Alex cursing under his breath, Charles could barely understand what Hank was trying to tell him. He could see, however, Hank's hand pointing somewhere towards the horizon and, out on the ocean, in the general direction in which Hank was gesticulating, the silhouette of a ship, barely visible against the bright light of the sky.

"Can you, Charles?"

With his last remnants of strength, Charles, understanding what Hank was asking, lifted his hand up to his head. His face screwed up with exertion as he tried to focus his mind on the sailors in the ship- presumably a rescue squad or some military boat of sorts.

He held onto the mind of the captain by a thread for long enough to send him one short, telepathic message.

_To the Island. Help. Five._

As the ship turned slowly around to face them and began travelling towards them, Charles allowed his cramped body to go completely limp, and his mind blacked out.

* * *

><p>The next thing Charles remembered was a bright light. Then nothing. Voices. Nothing. Moira's face; someone crying. Nothing. Indefinite time passed, and Charles' consciousness went from snippets of memory to void, perception to nothingness. A feeling on his arm. Nothing. Hank and Sean conversing near him. Nothing. His mind slid in and out of those of other people, their thoughts waking him. A group of people around him. Nothing. A buzzing…<p>

Charles was not sure whether it was inside his head or an external buzzing noise; it woke him nevertheless. Clinical whiteness surrounded him; he was covered in nothing but a robe of synthetic material and a flimsy sheet, yet he was unusually hot; his mouth dry and eyes sticking together. He licked his cracking lips and blinked several times, flexing and releasing his fingers as he did so.  
>Slowly, he let his left hand travel up from the side of his body, over his stomach and to his chest, where his shaking fingers found the end of the sheet that was draped lightly over him; then to the left towards a low plastic table with flowers and some glasses atop it. His movement uncoordinated, Charles managed to upset one of the glasses. It did not seem to have any fluid in it, but the noise prompted a reaction from someone to his right.<p>

"Charles? Charles, are you awake?" Moira's voice was fast-paced, yet it betrayed hints of tiredness.

Charles snapped his head to the right to see her face hovering over him, worried and red but still beautiful as ever. As tears welled up in her chocolate eyes, he felt her delicate hand caressing his cheek and clasped his own, larger one, over it. He had some sort of clip over his index finger, connected by a tube to some piece of machinery, which impeded his movement a little. His eyes were wide, darting around Moira's face, searching, perhaps, for some kind of reassurance.

"What..." Charles began, his voice, still thick and groggy, quivering as his heavy breathing accelerated, "what happened."

At the sight of her friends' eyes wandering down to his lower half- as much as they could from his hospital cot-bound position- Moira wrenched her hand away from his desperate grasp and said, "I think I should fetch a doctor."

With that, the young agent turned on her heel. Charles could see that she was trying very hard to keep her head bowed, her auburn hair covering her face. He let her reach the door before he spoke.

"Moira, don't. Please."  
>As Moira reluctantly turned around in response to his pleading words, her face revealed that she had begun to cry.<p>

"Charles..." she choked, placing her first two fingers against her jugular notch and rubbing it rhythmically, with an amount of pressure that hardly looked comforting anymore. Charles did not have to read her mind to know that she was chronically nervous. On one hand, he wanted to let her go; to not keep her here in an uncomfortable situation. On the other, he felt he really needed her there.

"Come here" Charles whispered.

As Moira made her way slowly back to the bed, shaking her head and whimpering, Charles moved his hand towards the corner of the light blue sheet atop his stiff body. He inhaled deeply, but before he could begin to peel it back, he felt Moira's hand slamming onto his own, wedging his fingers between hers and his torso, rendering them immobile.

"Don't do that. Charles, I'm begging you. Don't!"

"God, Moira, whatever's the matter?" Charles chuckled nervously, his voice slowly returning to him.

Moira simply clenched her lips and shook her head. Her eyes were full of fear and pity, and it did little if nothing to comfort Charles. On the contrary; it frightened him.

"Moira, will you tell me what happened or..."

Moira simply clapped her free hand to her mouth and shook her head harder than ever, leaving Charles with no other option but to carry out the unspoken threat, as much as he disliked the idea of it.

He didn't even need to lift his fingers to his temples to enter Moira's mind; she was practically thinking out loud anyway. He filtered through memories of the last days, searching desperately for any knowledge of what had happened to him.

Moira submitted to the telepathic scan, and she knew when Charles had found what he was looking for, for he let her go with a force that nearly drove her backwards.

Charles inhaled and exhaled twice, his chest heaving, a wall of tears building up in his otherwise sparkling eyes.

"Oh no... No. No, no, no!" the telepath's voice quivered as he repeated the one heart-breaking word, before a cry of anguish ripped his lips apart and tears started streaming down his face.

Moira rushed over to her friend, wanting desperately to say something but unable to, and lifted his convulsing upper body. His hair was wet on her cheek, his skin smooth and hot. He shook against her chest like a mere leaf in a crashing storm. As she tightened her grip on him, his hands felt their way to her back, holding on to her with a crushing grasp.

"I'm so sorry," the young woman whispered into Charles' soft hair, knowing full well that no amount of apologies would heal his shattered spine; would return his life to him. So she left it at that, and simply held her sobbing friend, rocking back and forth with him in her arms, until Charles fell asleep from exhaustion.

When the nurse came into his room almost an hour later, Moira, too had drifted off in the chair next to Charles' bed, their hands still laced.

* * *

><p>His gloved fingers curled around the tiny, yet heavy, metal bullet, and although he was aware of the red skinned ally's presence behind him, he waited a moment in silence before addressing him.<p>

"Sprich."

"Ihr Wagen steht bereit," the devil-esque man replied.

His stay in Germany had provided a welcome opportunity to speak his first language, however, it had also served as a very painful reminder of repressed memories.

The teleporter turned to leave, but his leader held him back.

" Azazel, warte. Tell Bernd to tell the captain I will not be going straight to Texas."

"Gut. Wohin wollen Sie denn?"

Shoving the bullet into his pocket where he kept it -and, before it, the Reichsmünze- as reminder of his recklessness and stupidity, Erik turned to face his companion, "I think we should find him in Westchester, New York..."

_Take my hand and lead the way  
>Out of the darkness and into the light of the day<br>And take me somewhere I'll be safe  
>Carry my lifeless body away from the pain.<em>

**Author's Note: Right, what did you think? I must admit, it wasn't easy writing mostly from Charles' perspective in this chapter, but I hope it'll get better soon. As for the German, I tried to offer hints at translation in the text already, but in case anyone hasn't understood, here are the proper translations:**

_**Sprich- speak (imperative form)**_

_**Ihr Wagen steht bereit**** – Your (polite form) car is ready**_

_** Warte- wait (imperative form)**_

**_Gut. Wohin wollen Sie denn?- Alright. Where do you (polite form) want to go?_**

**Reviews are love guys, so if you can spare a minute or two they will be greatly appreciated! xxx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Hi again! Here's chapter II, but I wanted to add a little warning before we commence. This chapter might seem a little confusing after a certain point, but I promise you I haven't messed up. It'll all make sense at the end, so read carefully, OK?  
>Also, I have found the artist: their tumblr name if Shigtopia and their blog is called Same Rules Apply. So this fanfic is for shigtopia :-)<br>Without further ado, then, enjoy and drop me a review if you like.  
>xxx Blue-eyes<strong>

Help- An X-men fanfiction

Chapter II

February was cold and snow-covered that year in Westchester, the biting wind howled as it whipped the sides of the Xavier residence- now Xavier's school for gifted youngsters. Not that this bothered the few students: they had snowball fights in the garden, built snowmen; the younger ones had left snow-angels outside their Professor X's window for him to see. Of the Professor himself, however, they saw very little. In fact, it was Mr. McCoy, fondly known as Fuzz, Mr. Summers, who had brought his youngest cousin, Scott, to school also, and Mr. Cassidy who taught them. Mr. McCoy taught sciences, literature and mutant ethics, Mr. Summers was responsible for teaching the students to control their powers and Mr. Cassidy taught them physical education. Still, they all referred to Charles Xavier as The Professor, despite the fact that had not taught in a class since the school was established two months ago. Before that he had been absent after, as rumour had it, some terrible accident. Only the other teachers knew anything about the Professor, and refused to disclose it, to protect his privacy.

Charles himself was lying in his darkened bedroom, on the bed he had become so accustomed to over the last months, trying to block out the many voices in his head. The old curtains had been removed and replaced by cheap netting, but it did its part in keeping out some of the light from outside; at this late hour, there was hardly anything to block out, anyhow. Charles had long since begun to ignore the smell of alcohol and dust that lingered in his room; indeed, he found it comforting. He never went down to see the students- the school had been Hank's idea, after all. Let him teach the kids. He had only agreed to convert his home into a school for other mutants because he had believed it would please Moira to see him taking control of his life, devoting it to some purpose again. He had managed to keep up the façade in front of Moira quite well, too: although his hair had grown after his months of rehabilitation, his weight had dropped considerably and his face looked tired and drawn, he had managed to convince her, without telepathy, that he had found some cause and was actually going to carry this bloody school thing through. He loved Moira, but he had known right from the start that he would have to let her go some day, so he had let her forget him on a pleasant note to appease her and, to an extent, himself also.

As he lay, fingers picking at the scabbed-over incision on his thigh, exploring the strange sensation of nothing that the young Englishman had not yet become accustomed to, he let his eyes wander to the window pane, tiny flakes of snow swirling around outside of it. He tried not to let his mind slide into memories of the last few months; the months before…

"Damn!" Charles cussed under his breath. He would not think of Cuba! He would not remember his night-time chess games with the man who had come to be known as Magneto. He would not- would not!- ever again think of Raven; her dark red hair under his hand as he read to her at night. They had left him, stranded, alone and injured. He refused to allow himself to think of them, let alone in the strangely positive contexts he remembered his so called brother and sister in. And he would certainly not glance over to the wheelchair next to his bed; his constant reminder of his shortcomings and failures…

Trying to convince himself not to think of all these things, despite knowing that the ironic process theory applied here, Charles did not even notice Hank entering his room on feet so blue and furry and so damnably silent, for all his bestial bulk. To his credit, the young scientist had enough respect for Charles as to wait several paces inside the door until being instructed otherwise, and to clear his throat as a form of announcement for his arrival.

"Hank," Charles murmured, twisting his neck around to face the furry man, "What do you want?"

"Well, one of the kids asked me to send this up for _The Professor_. I'm assuming he meant you."

Hank stepped forward and placed a small bowl on Charles' bedside table where pictures of his childhood idols such as Albert Einstein and Darwin had formerly stood, now replaced by a singular photograph of Raven Darkholme in her blonde, humanoid form. Inside the bowl was a miniature ice sculpture of an X inside a circle, probably formed by one of the students- now what was his name again? Charles had forgotten- who possessed the ability to manipulate ice.

"They would love for you to come down once in a while. Millie has been trying for weeks to make me convince you to come and teach a class…"

"Which one is Millie again?"

"The ginger girl. The one who can see through walls. Anyway, they're all very curious about you, Professor."

Charles run his short-nailed, thin fingers through his, by now, almost chin-length hair- not for the purpose of combing it; a practice he had long since given up.

"I doubt they'd be so curious if they actually did meet me," he chuckled ruefully, the cynicism in his voice completely unveiled, "Let them have their rumours. Better than the real…" he exhaled heavily, his breath shaking as it left his throat, "Would that be all, Hank?"

It was not hard for Charles to tell that Hank would much have liked to discuss the issue of his leaving the bedroom further, but he swallowed his words, presumably for some other time.

"No, Professor. There's someone here to see you. I think… I think you had better come quickly."

"Fine," Charles breathed, if for no other reason than to get this meeting scheduled without him over ad done with as fast as possible to be left alone again afterwards, throwing the covers off himself to reveal his undernourished body- Charles' appetite had been small to nonexistent for months now, and despite his friends' best efforts he mostly refused food- limp, bare legs barely covered by an old-fashioned housecoat. Not wanted to prolong the discomfort clearly hanging in the atmosphere of his dingy room, Charles reached his arm closest to the door out and beckoned Hank closer.

"Hank, would you…" Charles could not bring himself to finish the sentence with _help me_, but Hank understood nonetheless. He strode towards Charles' bedside, allowing the older man to wrap his arm around his shaggy blue neck. Hank slid a furry arm under Charles' knees, trying to politely not notice the way the latter winced in shame as the formerly scrawny youth lifted him off the bed as though he was but a boy. Charles hated being carried but, in his current physical state, it was the only safe way for him to make a transfer.

"Wouldn't you like to change, Professor?" Hank asked tentatively as he sat him down in his hated chair.

Charles brought on elbow up to an armrest and rubbed his forehead with his hand, brushing Hanks words off with a flick of the other, "No need."

He allowed Hank to take control of his chair, something he would normally prefer to do himself. Before they reached the door, however, Charles swivelled his head around to look Hank in the eyes.

"Who is this visitor exactly?"

Hank stopped pushing Charles and cast his eyes downward, his top teeth biting down on his lower lip. Charles could read in his half-closed eyes that he did not wish to say, yet in his refusal, he may have well shouted the name out loud. There could be only one…

Charles stared at the youth towering behind him in dismay.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me…"

* * *

><p>He stopped before the room, his hand poised to knock in the air, not without some trepidation, his head unadorned for once, the bullet that may have caused immeasurable damages heavy in the pocket of his old leather jacket.<p>

He had arrived at the familiar mansion with no knowledge if whether he would even find his friend there or not. He had simply hoped to God that Charles had survived Cuba. Had he not... well, he had. It was better not to even imagine the other outcome.

He had greeted with some hostility upon his arrival. Thankfully, it had not been Beast that had come to welcome him, for he was sure his neck would be badly bruised if it had been, but Banshee, who was generally a peaceful boy. Still, the way he had glowered... it was to be expected, after what had happened in '62 of course, but the once friendly face growing so hostile and Sean's icy voice was almost worse than the attempt at strangulation he would have expected from Hank.

He knocked twice on the oaken door to Charles' study and was admitted with a "Come in."

The sight that greeted him was most relieving. Charles was sat in the bottle green armchair at his Victorian desk of polished mahogany, flicking through some paperwork with one hand, the other drumming quietly on the surface of the table. He looked much how Erik remembered him: donning his customary crisp white shirt and waistcoat with matching dress pants. Aside from considerable hair growth much in the style of popular pop-band members, he seemed completely unchanged.

Charles lifted his head from his head from his paperwork.

"Erik," he said, his voice clipped and, if possible, even more venomous that Sean's. Still, ever the spirit of politeness, he rose from behind the desk and came forward to shake Erik's hand.

"Charles, old boy," Erik replied, testing the boundaries of friendliness.

They said nothing while Charles returned to his desk, and for some time afterward. Erik removed his jacket and wished he had worn a cotton turtleneck instead of a woollen one, as the room was stiflingly warm, unlike his hide out in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern.

"So how..." he began, unsure of whether he was being too familiar, too inappropriately casual, "how is everyone?"

"Fine. Then again, I suppose you would know that better than me."

"Right," Erik naturally understood Charles' allusion to the fact that he had divided their former group by leaving with Angel and, worst of all, Raven.

"Charles, I... I hope you know... I never wanted for that to..."

"Don't lie to me, Erik," Charles hissed, "I know you're rash, but you're no fool. You had no intention of staying with us after Shaw was gone. Forming your own little alliance; it's what you always wanted. You didn't approve of my methods and you knew exactly who would follow you when the time came. So don't pretend, Erik. You owe me that much."

His old friend's speech humbled Erik and he said nothing for a while. When he spoke again, it was softly and apologetically.

"Alright. Yes, you're right. But I promise you that I would much rather have had it go a different way."

"Ha..." Charles breathed, but Erik cut him short.

"I never wanted you to... look," Erik pointed towards his head, "Go ahead. See if I'm lying."

"I'm in no mood for games, Erik."

"I'm serious. If you don't belie-"

"Erik I said no!" Charles hissed through clenched teeth. He brought a shaking hand to his mouth and passed it over his unshaven jaw twice. He averted his eyes from the man standing before him, so he did not see that Erik's eyes were still resting on him; boring through him, more like.

Erik tried a change of tactics, "I see the school is up and running. Isn't that what you always wanted?"

"Not quite how I wanted it." Charles said, drumming his fingers on the desk again.

Erik sighed heavily, "Charles, I am sorry. Really. But what's done is done. And...wouldn't you like to move on too?"

Charles shut his eyes for several seconds before answering. When he opened them again, they looked exhausted and glassy. He gave a subtle nod of his head. It was only then that the two men noticed the crying wind outside and the ice crashing against the window.

"Bloody blizzard," Charles whispered to himself, turning to look through the glass.

"Look," he said, his tone resigned, "I think I could get Hank to make a room for you, if you don't want to be out in the storm."

Despite the reluctance in Charles' voice, Erik construed this as a peace-offering; one which he could not decline.

"Thanks. Should I go talk to Hank then?"

Erik was dismissed with a nod and a flick of Charles' hand, and he knew better than to stay and try and press further. He was already overstaying his welcome.

Erik turned to leave but stopped short in the doorway. He twisted his head around one last time,

"Really, I'm very grateful… old friend." he said. He received no reply, so he left the study and closed the door.

Had Erik stayed, he would have seen Charles' demeanour change into that of a man alien to him: he would have seen Charles reach into the lower drawer of his desk, protruding a bottle of whiskey, a tumbler, and a syringe. He would have witnessed his old ally fill the glass with the deep golden liquid, roll up his sleeve and grab eagerly for the syringe before stopping short of entering the needle into the soft flesh of his lower arm and smashing the thing to the table with a pained grunt, favouring to down the alcohol instead. And he would have seen his friend bend over, cup his face in his hands, his shoulders beginning to shake.

_'Cause I know what I've been missing  
>And I know that I should try<br>But there's hope in this submission  
>And there's freedom in your eyes<br>And we cry away_


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Just a quick one this time: ****_this_**** is the chapter that's based on shigtopia's picture. I hope I managed to do the beautiful artwork justice with my words...  
><strong>**Right, that's it out of me. Sit back, and hopefully, enjoy. And don't forget to review!**

**Mutant and proud!  
>-Blue-eyes xxx<strong>

Help- An X-men fanfiction

Chapter III

The snow storm continued through the night- grew stronger, even- yet it was not the pounding of ice and snow against the windowpane that awoke Erik. It was a sharp pang in his head, reverberating off the walls of his skull, accompanied by a voice, loud, screaming in agony. He could hear a jumble of unintelligible words echoing through his head. None of them made any sense whatsoever, but they reached a collective pitch which was utterly unbearable. Images of a nature most disturbing flashed before his eyes; blood, pain, anger, hatred. Blindly, Erik stumbled out of bed and towards the door. He staggered through the hallway, falling from one side to the other, holding himself steady against the walls with one hand while clutching his splitting head with the other. He had only experienced this feeling once before, though never to this extent and he knew exactly where to find the cause.

When he reached Charles' room, Erik flung the door open and lurched inside to find his old friend writhing on his mattress, thrashing his arms about as though fending off some invisible beast. He could see Charles' mouth forming words, but they came out as agonized moans. His hair was sticking to his sweaty face; had it not been for the painfully loud thoughts Charles was projecting into his mind, Erik would have been deeply concerned.

Suddenly, Charles' eyes snapped open and he shot up onto his elbows, the covers falling off him. He drew one hand up to his head, supporting himself with the other, and began to moan to himself.

"Please… stop! Go! Go away! Please… please… stop… please!"

As abruptly as Charles had risen, the voices in Erik's head had subsided. He took a moment to recover before rushing over to the other man's bed. Charles was rocking backwards and forwards on the palm of his hand, the fingertips of the other digging into his head. Erik all but jumped onto the bed, instinctively wrapping one arm tightly around Charles' unclothed torso, which felt thinner than it had looked under a shirt. With Erik supporting him, Charles was free to grab onto his leg with the hand that previously been doing the job. He massaged his thigh, groaning.

"Charles," Erik whispered; then, a little louder, "Charles? Charles, what's wrong?"

"I can…" his friend cried, the pain clearly registered in his voice rendered him unable to speak, but he continued to murmur, still rubbing and pinching his thigh. Only after several seconds did Erik notice that tears were glistening on Charles' face. Erik wanted so much to wipe them away, to ease the pain, but his arms busy holding Charles prevented him from the former, and he did not know how to accomplish the latter. He didn't even know what the nature of his old ally's pain was. How could he possibly ease it?

For minutes they sat on the bed in the same position, until Charles began to ease his grip on his leg and his breathing regulated itself a little. The telepath sucked in a sharp breath of air before he spoke. When he did, his voice was thin and shaking.

"The voices..." he whispered, forming a fist against his temple, "Everyone's thoughts… they all come back to me. I can hear them all, Erik. Every single one. I feel everything"

Erik didn't know how to ask his friend what was troubling him, but he didn't have to. Charles was perfectly capable of finding out what Erik was thinking for himself.

"What do you mean? Charles, what do you feel? "

If Erik had been confused before, he was completely and utterly perplexed now. Charles had never had difficulties controlling his powers before. And why could he not simply say what was troubling him? Erik was sure it wouldn't be anything he couldn't handle. What was Charles so adamant on hiding?

Erik glanced over his shoulder in desperation, and, standing in the corner of the room, high backed and metallic, he found the answer to his question.

"Charles," he asked tentatively, "what..." he did not need to carry on. Charles let out a pained whimper that confirmed his thoughts possibly more than any words would have.

Erik exhaled slowly, and stared at Charles from behind with pitying eyes. He remembered with vivid clarity that day on Cuba. How Moira - quite stupidly- began firing metal bullets at him, one after another, him deflecting them deflecting them left and right. After the missiles it was more child's play than anything else, but his survival instinct still ran high. The sickening crack of the bullet hitting Charles in the back, his cry, the thud as he hit the sand. There was no blood when Erik had retrieved the bullet: Charles' bulletproof suit had done its job... to an extent. He had never imagined that the amplified speed and force of the bullet could have done any damage, not through the sui. There hadn't even been any blood!

Erik began to speak, but was interrupted by Hank bursting into the room. He shoved Erik away from Charles and pulled the Professor gently onto his own lap. As he wiped Charles' hair away from his sweaty face with what could only be described as his paws and felt his temperature carefully, he said,

"Dean told me you were projecting. I was on a walk, Professor, I'm sorry. I came up here as fast as I could..."

"It's alright, Hank. I'm... I'm OK. I'm OK."

Erik observed the tenderness with which even Beast held their mutual friend's fragile body with an ever expanding lump in his throat.

"Charles, I..." he choked, but Charles interrupted him.

"Just go, Erik," he hissed.

"But..."

"Just leave!"

For the second time that day, Erik left Charles without speaking what was truly in his heart. As he closed the door behind him, he heard Hank's deep bass asking Charles where he had experienced the pain, and Charles replying that it had been in back and legs. As Erik slumped against the door and slid down it, he listened to Hank saying that everything was alright; sheets rustling and the springs of the bed creaking he flipped Charles over onto his stomach.

_What have you done, Erik?_ Erik thought to himself. _What have you done? Oh, Charles, I'm so sorry. So sorry… _

And though he wasn't sure if it was the cruel mixture of fatigue and shock playing tricks with his head, but he thought he heard someone saying, _I know, my friend. I know. _

_I'm sick and tired of being afraid  
>If I cry anymore then my tears will wash me away<br>But when I hear you call my name  
>I whisper the word that I never thought I'd ever say<em>


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Just to let you know, this chapter will be split into two parts because, on its own, it's eleven pages long, and to not split it would just be bloody cruel :-D Still, hope the quantity doesn't kill the quality. Either way, feel free to tell me what you think in a review. It will be greatly appreciated :-)  
>Tonnes and tonnes of love,<br>Blue-eyes**

Help- An X-men fanfiction

Chapter IV

It was well into the next day when Charles finally emerged from his bedroom, after much careful prodding from Hank. Erik was seated on one side of the coffee table in the big armchair in the old parlour where the two of them had once enjoyed late night games of chess and debates about the state of the world, mutant inequality and their diverging ways to fix it, as allies; as friends.

The blizzard still raging outside, Erik had retreated to the library to read- allegedly. His primary goal had been to escape the judging stares of the other mutants in the mansion, for while yesterday it had been only the three who knew him of old shooting Erik poisoned daggers, after last night's projection, all the students had heard something or other about him and by the way the students glared at him, it was evident that it had been nothing good.

It was with a sinking feeling in his chest that Erik watched Charles wheel into the room, clad in his old, grey tracksuit bottoms and an open paisley shirt, revealing his ribs and every single bone in his torso. His wheelchair was riddled with Hank's signatures: fully automatic- Charles had only to fiddle with a joystick to manoeuvre himself in any direction-, state of the art, completely silent, cushioned -anyone who knew Hank knew how much the Professor and his comfort meant to the young man- and the decorative rather than practical X that adorned the wheels. Still, Charles looked... wrong in it.

He held his body painfully cramped to the side, leaning heavily one elbow. The chair was rather bulky and Charles, so skinny, looked completely lost.

He stopped several feet away from Erik and motioned for him to move the armchair opposite his own so the he might take his place at the table. Erik gladly obliged, but Charles did not accept the space even after it had been cleared and Erik had sat back down again. He simply stayed put in the middle of the room, his electric blue eyes boring into Erik, his chest rising and falling slowly, nostrils flaring with each breath.

"Charles," Erik said, with more of a warning note in his voice than he had intended, instinctively reaching a hand to his head.

"I'm not reading your mind," Charles said, his eyes never moving and his voice monotone, "I can't."

"But I thought..."

"I'm blocking you out. All of you."

Erik wanted dearly to ask Charles what he meant to achieve by refusing to use his powers- the previous night, he had mentioned voices- but he could tell by the way Charles shifted in his chair, folding his arms in front of him, that that was not the topic this conversation was going to have.

"Tell me about the school, then," Erik offered, but was immediately cut short.

"I don't want to talk about the bloody school."

With the frosty air of defiance that surrounded him, Erik had no choice but to close his mouth again. Perhaps it would be for the better to let Charles have the first word. He submitted silently to Charles' stare, so sharp and laced with anguish that it felt to Erik as though he were being repeatedly stabbed. After a while, though, Charles' eyes began to soften and, lowering his head, one hand absentmindedly beginning to pinch his thigh, he spoke.

"Hank made a serum. When I take it, I can walk but… well, it probably for the better that I can't use my powers now, anyway.

"Last night-" Erik said tentatively, not quite sure when and how the boundaries Charles had set would be overstepped. Charles didn't have to read Erik's thoughts to decipher the look on his face. He knew there was no way around the inevitable explanation

"It all rushes back. When I'm not taking the medication. I can hear them louder than ever."

Erik let his gaze rest on Charles, long and eerily penetrating. Those startlingly blue eyes were filled with a cocktail of emotions that even he could not define. The sight of friend- his dear friend; his only friend- in such pain, and all because of him...

Erik began to say something, but he was interrupted as Charles let out a pained sigh and let his torso droop over his lap, cupping his shaking head in one hand. Erik took all but sprung up an took a few hurried steps forward. He rested a hand on either armrest of Charles' wheelchair, meaning to create a bond by closing the physical gap between them, but succeeded only in intimidating the telepath and further demonstrating his physical superiority. With all the strength he could muster, Charles pushed Erik away by the shoulders. Erik landed on his rear with a thump and a painful grimace, his back colliding with the coffee table and upsetting the old chess board upon it.

"N-no!" Charles breathed heavily, his voice rising in pitch, " Don't you think..."

"Charles..."

"No!" the telepath yelled, drawing himself up to the fullest height that his chair permitted him, "Don't you think for a second that this changes anything! You left! You left Erik; you took her away and you left! All of us; me! So don't you think for one minute..." Charles exhaled heavily, closing his eyes for a few seconds to gain any residual composure he possibly could. Erik had the good sense to remain silent.

When Charles found his voice again, it was a breathy whisper in which he spoke.

"Why?"

"Why… why did I leave?"

Charles made a noise of affirmation, his voice cracking.

"I left... I left because I had to."

Contrary to anything Erik could have imagined of Charles' reaction, he began to laugh. A dry, short, cynical laugh. He was about to speak, but Erik fell in.

"Charles, please," he said, more imploringly than intended, "I had to. As for Mystique- Raven; she wanted to leave. Your cause was not her cause, Charles, we all knew that. But if you think she hasn't talked about you, thought of you, wept for you every day since then, you're mistaken, kid. She regrets- we both regret the way what happened happened. We never wanted it to end that way, Charles. I never wanted..."

"But it did. It didn't have to. You didn't have to leave," Charles choked.

"I had to leave," Charles tried again to ask why, but Erik continued without notice, "I know I shouldn't have. God, I know! But Charles, the way you looked at me. The way you look at me now-" Erik paused, pressing his lips together in preparation for an onslaught of feelings he had tried to close himself off to for so many years, "I've hurt people before, Charles; people I loved. But you... You have to believe me when I say that not a day has passed that I haven't thought of that day; of the way you looked at me."

The two old friends sat in silence, staring into each others' eyes for a while. Erik couldn't feel whether Charles was inside his head or not, but his friend's expression seemed to soften the tiniest bit with the hint of understanding.

"Charles... can you ever forgive me?"

"No," Charles replied, with a half suppressed tremor in his voice, yet shockingly resolute, almost as soon as the words had left Erik's mouth, "no I don't believe I can."

Erik watched as Charles' eyes, once electric azure and so full of life, now grey and corpselike, travelled towards the chess pieces on the dark wood floor. He nodded his chin towards them, then towards the board on the table as he spoke.

"Set up."

Erik couldn't suppress a surprised chuckle.

"Do it now before I change my mind," Charles commanded. He wheeled himself towards the table, finally, and wordlessly accepted the black pieces Erik handed him from the floor. They set the board up in silence, just as they had done so many times before.


	5. Chapter 4 (part two)

**Author's Note: This is part two of chapter two. I really hope this one doesn't get too out of character. I did put a bit of how I wish Charles and Erik would act in here, as opposed to how they really act in the movies, but I tried to not make it too wildly different from the way their characters are written in the original template, if you will.  
>Please, pretty please leave me review if you can spare a minute :-)<br>Blue-eyes xxx**

Help- An X-men fanfiction

Chapter II

Erik heaved himself heavily into the velvet armchair opposite Charles. He lifted his hand to make the opening move, but dropped it almost immediately. He smiled at Charles, then took the board gently by either side and twisted it around so that the white side was in front of Charles rather than himself. The latter lifted his gaze up to Erik's eyes, and the two men nodded at each other with almost undetectable subtlety as Charles pushed the pawn left from the centre two squares forwards, as usual.

"How is she?"

"Charles, you don't..."

"How is she?"

Erik moved a knight as he replied, "She might join me in Texas. We have inside information about an endangered mutant there,"

"She might?"

Erik breathed a sigh of resignation, "We had a disagreement. She's no longer sure."

"She seemed sure," Charles smiled a thin, rueful smile.

"She was. She's a strong girl, Charles. You were a good mentor…"

"Evidently not as good as you."

"... but it was all too much for her. After Cuba, she changed. Sounded like you were in her head again."

"You know I never was. In her head I mean."

Erik halted his rook in mid-air.

"Oh come on..."

"No, really. I didn't need to read her mind to know she wanted to go," Charles shook his head sadly, "I didn't even need to read her mind to tell that she needed a greater reason to leave. So I gave her one. The only person that ever got inside her head, Erik, was you," he moved a bishop two fields; Erik noted that he could have captured a black knight had he moved in the other direction, and wondered why he hadn't, "What did she say?"

"That she thinks our cause is counterproductive. She said... she said they maybe you were right all along."

"I can see why you would think those were my words."

"You're still sticking to your ideals, aren't you?"

"Are you still sticking to yours?" Charles leaned forward, resting his elbows on his lap, his face betraying a hint of the man he had once been, a faint glimmer of an old, extinguished light returning to his eyes with the thrill of a good game and debate.

"You forget, Charles, I have seen the way people react. The way humans fear and hate. All that is different is wrong in their minds."

"Erik, not all people..."

"The few that are not are soon stamped out. All others will follow blindly, will act out of fear, and I refuse to let that happen to our brothers and sisters."

"So you think killing is the option? Eradication rather than educa-"

"Spare me, Charles! You don't know what it's like- to see your family _die! _And all because of humans. If I can put a stop to their idiocy; their blindness; so help me, I will!"

"And what of the human families?" Charles asked, thoughtfully scraping his lower lip with his top row of teeth.

"Just as blind," Erik replied immediately and firmly, leaving little room for a change of mind. Charles sighed deeply: it had been a long time since he had had a proper conversation with anybody, especially one not cut short by an awkward comment about his physical condition, and he was in no state of mind to discuss mutant dominance versus mutant equality with anyone, let alone Erik. It was a tiresome, chewed over and over and regurgitated topic, and Charles' patience span was probably the shortest it had ever been. Still, queerly, he found himself enjoying the familiar banter just a little.

"So, you're saying, then, that humans are the inferior race?"

"You know what I'm saying, Charles."

"And they should all be wiped off the face of the planet? And all that help them too? Mutants that help them?"

"_Mutants?_"

Charles thought he saw Erik's resolute expression falter for just a second, but the man was practiced at hiding his emotions, and without further insight into his mind, Charles could not be sure. That, however, would involve letting all the other minds in also, something he was guaranteed to regret.

"Yes. Other mutants. Those that fight for something other than what _you_ believe. All that don't agree with you are inferior, just like the humans?"

"Not inferior, no. But you know how I feel about this cause of yours, Charles. You're blinded by your own inexperience."

"And you're blinded by your experience. Erik, can't you see what you have become? You, of all people, willing to see families torn apart for the sake your beliefs? Erik, you know what that smacks of…"

"Charles, I'm warning you!"

"But it does!" Charles retorted. Passing the tip of his tongue over his dried-out lips, he lifted his head and eyes to the ceiling and expelled a short, almost elated laugh.

"For so long I have wanted to tell you this, Erik! You're wearing his helmet for goodness' sakes! You know it yourself, don't you? When the oppressed rise, they become the oppressors, and create a new under-class, blind to the fact that they are creating the very class they were fighting against being themselves. You discriminating on behalf of genetics is no better than the humans' hostility to mutants on the same grounds," Charles' voice rose, not so much in pitch as in weight and severity, "And yet you feel justified because you believe we are stronger. Well, Erik, some day, you will stare into the eyes of a dying mother while her son watches, and you will see that you are no better than any other ruthless supremacist!"

"Shut up!" Erik growled, slowly rising from his seated position, "You shut up Charles! You have no clue what you're saying! This is different!"

Charles whipped his head around as he heard the metal picture frames on the shelf behind him wobble and fall. He even thought he could feel his own wheelchair moving slightly beneath him. Determined to not let his vulnerability show, though, he continued as though he felt nothing.

"How? How is this different? You're talking -for a long time, now, you've been talking -about elimination of the human race for the sake of mutant survival, just the way your race- your family! - was liquidated. Has it never occurred to you that, perhaps, humans are doing the same? Fighting for their own survival in the face of the unknown by any means possible?

"Either way you look at it, Erik, you know I'm right. You are just as blind as them. And you wear Shaw's helmet, inflicting all the pain he inflicted upon you on others. Shaw may have made you his weapon, Erik, but don't let him make you _him_."

"It's different, Charles, because this is supremacism; this is not surviving in the face of the unknown."

The Professor was now very aware of the fact that his chair was swaying and on the verge of being upended in the magnetic field Erik was creating through his rage. As he gripped the armrests desperately, he thought ruefully that, perhaps the middle ground between anger and serenity hadn't been the right way to go after all.

"Have you even been outside these last months? Have you any idea of what's going on out there? This mutant I told you of in Texas; he isn't just any old mutant, Charles. It's Kennedy. The president of the United States- a good president. And they're going to kill him. Assassinate him because he is like us. This damn well _is _different! This is war! So don't you _ever _compare me to _that man!_"

Erik slowly released the metal in the room as he finished talking, the objects dropping with both the intensity and pitch of his voice. He watched as Charles collapsed over his knees, partially in relief, partially from the strain of fighting against the magnetism Erik had generated, before speaking again.

"What would _you _do here? Where's your hope now, Charles?"

Charles averted his eyes from Erik and stared down at the chess board long and hard, noticing that Erik's last move had put his white queen in jeopardy. He pulled her away half-heartedly. It took him a while before he could look up at his old companion again, his eyes suddenly melancholy and, Erik thought, revealing a hint of submission.

"You're right," the telepath replied, slowly and in hushed tones, "God, you're right. I had no idea! The... the president?"

Erik nodded, "After Cuba, the public became more and more aware of the existence of mutants. I did say that they would fear what they don't know. And, as always, that fear turned to hatred. Don't say I didn't warn you, Charles."

"You did," muttered the telepath through barely parted lips, "You did and I... I didn't want to believe it, I suppose. But this..."

He dropped his head between his arms, which were still leaning on his legs. Charles breathed a long, heavy sigh. The realisation that perhaps he had been the stubborn one, the one who refused to see that which was going on right in front of his eyes, hit him harder than any bullet ever could. These last months, he had done naught but drink alone in his bedroom, wallowing in his own grief and behaving like a child, while hatred towards his race- the race he had fought so hard to protect just half a year ago- raged on right outside the topiary that surrounded the false haven he had created.

"Charles," Erik said softly, "you're projecting again."

The Professor swore under his breath, trying to close the window in his mind that his stray thoughts had escaped through.

"You couldn't know what was going on," Erik said in an almost soothing voice, falling back into the armchair,"you weren't well. I regret having to be the one to tell you this, but... but as much as I once admired your diligent search for hope in everyone, all your good intentions are lost on humans. Retaliation is the only tactic that will work now. Since Cuba, all hope and diplomacy is futile."

The young mutant leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, resting his foot on one knee. He could see that Charles was thinking hard, but was rather convinced he had won at least this round of the debate, if not the entire discussion. Presently, he bent over his laced legs to daringly move his queen several squares forward.

This was the move Charles had been waiting for; he had anticipated it earlier, but it had come nonetheless. With the bishop he had previously moved out of its advantageous position, Charles captured the black queen and stood her next to his side of the board. He was not triumphant about it; it was merely another move, and one that would not necessarily secure his victory, especially when taking into consideration the amount of white pawns and other pieces Erik had already claimed for himself, but he was a step closer to it nevertheless.

"And whose fault was that?" he asked, fixating his glance off the game and back onto Erik's dumbstruck face, who was silently cursing himself for his carelessness.

"What?" he asked, his mind clearly still on the game.

"Who bombed those ships, Erik? You could have let those missiles detonate in the air, but _you _decided to redirect them!"

"They were firing at us Charles. Firing at mutants. Even you can't pretend there was some other motive."

Charles let out a small, incredulous laugh, "Honestly, had I seen someone raise a submarine before I had my powers, I would have been pretty bloody scared myself. They're not mutants; they don't know what really went on. You had the chance to show them that we mean to harm. You had the chance to be the more evolved human you take yourself for by sparing us _and _them, but you didn't.

So, maybe you're right. Maybe hope is futile now. But that's not their fault alone. Hope was not always lost!  
>"And maybe- maybe- I am a little naive. But you are far more than that. You retaliate; you act with rage and violence because that's all you've ever known, Erik. You of all people should know that experiencing hatred only leads to hatred. Gosh, look at yourself! You're so consumed with hatred towards humans that you don't even realise..." Acknowledging Erik's expression, bored at the sermon he had heard from Charles so many times before, the telepath decided to apply a different tactic.<br>"Say it works-"

"What?" Erik asked, surprised that Charles was even suggesting his way had a chance of succeeding.

"- and you achieve mutant domination. Perhaps you even wipe out humanity. Let's say mutants reign for... twelve years."

"Charles!" the thinly veiled allusion to Adolf Hitler angered the Jewish man, and Charles realised that he had perhaps been insensitive in making it. Still, he pressed on.

"Evolution will continue. It always does. Are you really so short-sighted as to believe that there will never be a time when something stronger than mutants is born? And we will begin to fear them, they will begin to hate us, and sooner or later, mutantkind will be no more. You are contributing to a cycle which, I believe, goes far beyond natural selection. It's an age old cycle that every race has had the power to break, and only few have succeeded in weakening the chain. Well, we have that power now, and I intend to use it."

Erik chuckled to himself, "Oh Charles, what do you even know about it? You've had a goddamn idyllic life; of course you think you can actually do something against ancient cycles! You're too damn sheltered. Well, I have news for you Xavier, you can't do anything about it. All your knowledge on the violence and natural selection lies in the pages of books and your thesis. You haven't seen it. You haven't lived through it. You can't possibly understand the pain..."

"Oh, but my friend, I do," Charles interrupted him with shaking lips and a breathy voice and so much emotion behind his words that Erik was momentarily silenced by shock.

"What do you mean," he asked after seconds had passed.

"I know pain," the Professor wanted dearly to move forwards, to take his old friend's hands in his and look him right in the eye but, alas, the table and his damnable chair prevented it, "my dear, dear friend: I don't pretend- I can't even _begin_- to comprehend the horrors you have seen. But I understand the place that you are coming from."

Erik stared at the man opposite him incredulously.

"I mean that I know... It is _so_ tempting... revenge. Revenge upon those that have hurt you. I think I finally truly understand.  
>"You have known nothing but pain your whole life. It took me my first real taste of pain to understand yours-" Erik noted that Charles had absentmindedly began to caress his knees with gentle fingers as he spoke- "perhaps you need only to experience hope to believe in it."<p>

"It's possible," Erik replied right away, "but that changes nothing. You see the world through rose-tinted glasses, old boy. Even if there was once hope... Your argument may be valid, but it's far too late. There is no hope for anyone anymore. There is simply fight, flee or die now. To believe in the hope in a hopeless situation is beyond petulance; it's paradoxical."

Charles did not retaliate. Instead, he pushed himself up into a more erected position again and rested his elbow on the armrest of his chair; his lips pressed into his balled fist and contemplated whether or not it was to say what he intended to.

"Erik," he began slowly, words muffled through his fisted hand, "hope is not something I generously spread around over every situation. If that is the impression you have of me..."a jagged intake of air, a short silence, then the young man continued in a thick, wistful voice,  
>"I waited in hospital for days. And Moira kept telling me to hope, hope, hope for the best and I wanted to! When they finally told me... well , I already knew there was no hope. And still, Moira wouldn't have it. She clung to the faint idea of hope. I didn't. I don't. This-" Charles opened his arms and turned his palms to the ceiling to indicate to his broken body, "this won't ever change, and no hope will make it.<br>"But I have been inside the minds of the people. I know what they think and how they feel. I know when there is no way out of a situation, trust me. But in humanity, I see a spark. The faintest light of hope that could be brought to a full blaze if we tried."

Erik had to avert his eyes as Charles passed a shaky hand over his face. He felt the greatest pang of remorse; one which he knew was impossible to vocalise in any way.

"Charles," he whispered, trying nonetheless, "I am so, _so _very sorry. You know I am. And if I had any way to turn things around, you have to believe me when I say I would! I... I hate seeing you like this, Charles. I know it's all my fault. I know..." Erik's voice sunk to a mere whisper, the disappeared entirely into silence. He paused a while before continuing, watching Charles' bony chest rise and sink in a desperate attempt to keep composed.

"But I don't quite see how this relates," he carefully resumed.

"Actually," Charles said thoughtfully, not answering Erik's question as such, "I think, perhaps, hope is no longer the right word.  
>Forgiveness. Forgiveness of past errors is the first step towards change."<p>

"I can't forgive that easily, Charles. I doubt anyone could.

" As I said, revenge is tempting, isn't it? And so easy. But it won't bring you peace of mind, Erik. It won't bring you satisfaction. God, it would be-"

"What do you know about it?"

"-so easy for me to get Hank's gun right now."

Erik jerked his head back slightly at the mention of a gun that had come seemingly from nowhere. He stared at Charles, brow knitted in confusion. As his friend started to speak again, however, he believed that he understood.

"He keeps a gun in the study, just in case. I could get it right now. Ask you to rise, to turn around," as he whispered these words, Charles' hand made a motion to suggest pulling a trigger and Erik's eyes fixed on it, round with shock at his friend's macabre musings,

"Would you like that, Erik? As you say, do unto others..."

Erik recoiled into his chair, "Charles, you-"

"I could do it. I won't, but I could. But what good would it do? A spine for a spine: that's not the way it works." Charles gulped as his words caught in his throat. he shook his head sadly, his long hair falling about his face, hiding the hurt behind his sapphire eyes.  
>"I don't know what this will do by way of proving my point, but I know I said before that I didn't think I could forgive you. But, for whatever it's worth, I will try."<p>

Erik sat in silence as Charles exhaled, sniffed and exhaled again, astounded at the dignity and humanity that remained in him even after his ordeal, all the while telling himself _you don't deserve this, you don't deserve thi_s. After all the distress he had caused his friend, the love for him still present in Charles' heart was almost too much for him to bear.

"How?" was all he managed to choke out.

Charles laughed once, short and breathy. "I don't know," he said, thickly and nasally, a tear spilling out onto his cheek, " perhaps I really am the sentimental fool you take me for."

"You definitely are a fool, Xavier," Erik muttered, but with love in his voice.

"No more fool than you, my friend," Charles began to say, but was silenced by Erik's body crashing into his own, almost bringing his chair to a tumble. The two men stayed, wrapped in each other's crushing embrace, the months of hatred and bitterness towards each other not forgotten, but paling in the light of forgiveness, and all negative feelings washing over them for a brief, blissful moment.

Whispering, for no exactly fathomable reason, into Erik's ear, Charles broke the beautiful silence they had shared.

"Help me," he breathed. Erik pulled away to look into Charles' red, swollen visage. The latter shuddered, and his face contorted into a picture of forlorn helplessness and agony, so broken that Erik felt it shatter his own fragile though well guarded heart. He chuckled nervously in an attempt to mask how much he had been affected.

"What's that now?"

Charles gripped onto the front of Erik's polo-neck with a shaking hand, his knuckles growing alarmingly white very quickly.

"I... I don't know what to do anymore," Charles whispered fervently, as though afraid someone might be eavesdropping, desperation laced with every syllable "I can't... I've lost..."

His words were drowned by a wave of emotion. He dropped Erik's shirt and began to hit his knee repeatedly with the side of his fist, the dull thud of impact growing louder with each time he slapped himself.

"Hey, hey!" Erik snapped, grabbing Charles' wrist in midair. Charles whipped his head up to face Erik.

"You helped me once," Erik began, "when I was desperate and down. And I will always be grateful to you for that. But I can't help you. I don't know how," Erik pronounced each word of his last statement very clearly, to signalise that it was no question of volition, but of ability.

"But..." Charles whimpered.

"But I know you can get over this, Charles. If anyone can, it's you. God, you're the strongest person I know! So much stronger than me; stronger than Hank, even," he laughed, "But I can't stay here. I can't help you old boy. I'm sorry, but I'm just not the right person."

"You won't stay? Then all I've said..."

"No. I'm sorry, but I can't stay. I know now how right you were; we want different things."

Charles nodded slowly, and Erik thought it alright to return to his seat. After Charles wiped his eyes angrily, they resumed their game in silence. Playing chess was, in a way, an act of forgiveness and an equaliser for them. They could argue, they could break down, they could oppose each other in battle, but, at either side of the chess board, they were equals: two young men playing a game, nothing more and nothing less. Several moves were exchanged before they spoke again, this time in calmer, more civilised tones.

"Promise me something, then, Erik," Charles said, keeping his eyes fixed on Erik's move, "if we can't be allies, that whatever happens, however bad the fight gets, you and I will never hurt each other again."

"I swear," Erik promised, nodding. Charles nodded back at him before glancing over his shoulder and out of the window. The skies had brightened, and the snow was now falling in light little flakes again.

"You'd better be on your way, before the blizzard starts again," he told Erik.

The German rose to leave, sensing he had been dismissed, but stopped in his tracks. He looked down at Charles, hunched over in that chair of his, the day's turmoil clearly taking its toll on him.

"Will you be alright, Charles?" he asked, concerned.

"Oh," Charles dismissed his worried words with a flick of his hand, "don't worry about me."

He smiled up at Erik, albeit wanly, but a genuine smile all the same.

"Charles, I hope you know that I..." Erik couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence, but Charles did it for him.

"I do. I'll miss you too, Erik."

"Actually, it's Magneto now."

"Erik," Charles repeated, refusing to call his friend by his name chosen in hatred rather than the name given to him in love.

Erik turned on his heel to exit the study, but Charles called him back one last time.

"By the way," he said, gesticulating towards the chess board with his chin, "you're in check, old friend."

Erik glanced briefly at the board, then flashed Charles a sly grin, which the telepath reciprocated with an enigmatic smile. Then, Erik turned around again, leaving Charles Xavier on his own once more; this time, though, with a small smile on his face, the spark of hope and forgiveness in his eye once more.

_And I hope to God you'll listen  
>And you'll keep me safe from harm<br>'Cause I found what I was missing  
>When I fell into your arms<br>And we cry away_

**Author's Note: So, that's it for part one. I just wanted to express a huge thanks to a friend of mine, although she isn't on fanfiction. Her name is Melissa, ad he was kind enough to improvise this whole scene that makes up chapter four with me, and a lot of Erik's words are directly from her mouth. She's an amazing writer, actress and friend, and I'm so grateful for her help (put totally not intended :-P )**


	6. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Ok, last chapter! I want to explain some things in a note at the bottom, so if something seems a little odd to you, stay tuned ;-) **  
><strong>Blue-eyes xxx<strong>

Help- An X-men fanfiction

Chapter V

"Wir sind da," Azazel repeated, but Erik took little notice. He was gazing out of the car window, turning his fedora over and over in his hands.

"I know," he replied absentmindedly. His flight was due to leave in three hours. They were over-punctual. There was still time for him to make up his mind.

Erik thought back to all that Charles had said. About retaliation, forgiving, moral re-education of the masses, and he wondered, not for the first time, if he was right. Erik was not one to lay bare his soul in even the slightest way, in part because he was aware of the damages done to it. Scars that would never heal etched into every fibre of his being by Shaw, by the Nazis, Hitler and by the people who chose to inconsequentially believe them. These same scars were being scratched open again by those very same people, now on the beginnings of an anti-mutant rampage and Erik intended to stop them before it could truly be set in motion. A train on the path of destruction was an unstoppable one; it was best not to let it even start up its engine.

However, Charles had said something that, although Erik had not let it show too much, had cut him right to the bone, and his friend's words had not left his mind since.

_Someday, you will stare into the eyes of a dying mother while her son watches, and you will see that you are no better than a man who persecutes Jews because of the inequality he experienced at their hands while searching employment... Shaw may have made you his weapon, Erik, but don't let him make you him..._

As much as it had hurt him and as much as he refused to admit it, in his heart of hearts, Erik could not dent that Charles was right. Either which way, one race would be abolished to make room for the other. To Charles, it was about putting a halt to this perceived inevitability. To Erik, it was about decided which race would destroy, which be destroyed. It was far simpler, and history and nature had proven it to be something reoccurred and was almost impossible to prevent. Then again, history had also proven that this form of selection was a painful, horrible process, usually remembered in negative contexts. Was he not, then, in the endeavour to eliminate the weaker race as bad as...

No! He refused to think along those lines. With a deep sigh, Erik Lehnsherr closed off his mind to all feelings, all doubts, all worries, as he had so many times before. He felt impregnable this way, by all but one -one who was safely locked in his New York mansion anyway, and wouldn't be bothering Erik anytime soon. He slipped his large hat down over his face and placed large, tinted shades on his nose, further amplifying the effect of his emotionless poker face, and exited the car together with Azazel.

Magneto couldn't be entirely sure, but, making his way towards the airport, he thought he heard his own name being called somewhere in the back if his mind. Whether he was simply losing his senses or whether it truly was his old companion calling out to him he did not know, but he made a mental note to have one of his new brothers bring his helmet to Texas all the same.

* * *

><p>For the first time in a while, Professor Charles Xavier was waiting at the top of the stairs in his wheelchair for Hank to come and assist him. His heart pounded in his chest, reverberating throughout his entire body, and he was acutely aware of his, what he believed to be, physical shortcomings. He looked like a tramp, he thought to himself, as though he hadn't slept or bathed in months- which was not all that far from the truth. Emaciated, limp, tired, he surely wasn't the heroic, admirable figure children could look up to that a Professor should be. Still, after Erik had left, Charles had found a new sense of determination. He had been confined mostly to his bedroom in the past two weeks. He could barely remember the individual days: they merged together in a haze of pain, screaming voices and begging: begging Hank for the serum, begging an unseen other in his empty room to put him out of his misery; pleading for the nightmare to end. Slowly, the voices in his head had subsided, though, and the phantom pains had ceased. Although he still struggled to keep his telepathy from running wild when he was irate, exhausted or in pain- which was, in fact, currently more often than not- he was beginning to find that inner peace again, the point between rage and serenity that enabled him to keep himself in control and that made everything seem more bearable. Charles wanted to be a part of the world again, to fight again, and to prove, to Erik, himself and anyone else, that his cause was a worthy one, and he needed this strength to do so.<p>

Presently, he heard heavy footsteps making their way towards the staircase. Hank was easily able to take three stairs at a time, so that he arrived at the stop of the stairs within moments, barely breathing heavier than normal.

"They're ready for, you Professor," Hank informed his friend and mentor.

"Did you warn them…"

"Yes."

"But you didn't tell them that…"

"No."

Hank and Charles had laid out the specifics of the day well in advance. It was the first time Charles' philosophy and mutant biology classes would not be cancelled or substituted by a less qualified teacher. He had not taught a class since his return from the hospital- since before he had been injured. Hank has prepared the students for the arrival of the much rumour and myth-enshrouded Professor. He had told them only enough so that they would not be curious, but not so much that Charles' privacy would be invaded. He had reminded them that Professor Xavier was there to teach them, and all rumours should be kept for recreational hours- there was very little substance to them anyway.

"They're really excited. I told them that we all fought together in Cuba, and I warned them to keep it down for a few weeks, but I spared the details.

"Good," Charles nodded, "they needn't know too much about us as teachers anyway. Just enough to keep the rumours at bay.  
>"So, how exactly does this thing work?"<p>

Charles gesticulated towards the banister of the long, winding staircase. Several days after Erik's departure, when Charles- in between bursts of discomfort and frustration- had first expressed his desire to, when _this_ was all over, to begin teaching again, Hank had begun to install a stair lift of his own design. He explained the particulars of the remote control, located on the armrest, interspersed with apologies that he had not been able to build one that could accommodate both the Professor and his chair at once, but reiterating that he _was_ currently working on one. He proceeded to assist Charles in transferring himself onto the lift, before lifting the heavy wheelchair up with one hand and making his way down the stairs.

Charles fiddled with the lever on the lift, until he felt a sudden jot, and found himself descending slowly down the flight of stairs. In and of itself, it was a grand feeling, floating down like that, but the closer he came to being at ground level- Hank was standing with his chair at the ready and an enormous grin of his shaggy face, his eyes filled the utmost joy and pride- the more Charles felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. In the lift, he felt liberated, independent. But he knew that, once he was on the ground, he would be heavily reliant on Hank once more- for the time being, at least, until his strength was restored to what it had once been- weighed down and, in his eyes, helpless. Helpless in the fight against the torture his own body and mind inflicted upon him. How could he, so defenceless against merely himself, fight for any cause, be a mentor to anyone?

As Charles reached the ground, Hank offered him a helpful arm, but the telepath held up his hand and it shook his head- it was more of a shiver, a tremor, really, than a shake. Even Hank could see that the Professor's whole body had tensed up to the point that he was trembling.

"I can't do it," he choked out.

"What do you mean?" the Beast asked, truly perplexed at this sudden retrogression in demeanour, "Come on, I'll give you a hand."

He curled a hairy, azure arm around Charles' back, but the latter flicked it angrily away.

"N…" he could barely even bring himself to utter one simple syllable, so overwhelming was his feeling of self doubt; so violently impactful after his short-lived period of self-assurance, "no… please. _I can't do this_."

"What can't you do?"

"_This!_ Teach; go in there. There are so many minds in that room… so many eyes!"

Hank placed a comforting hand on Charles' rigid shoulder.

"Look, I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to do. But this-" the tall youth knelt down on one knee in front of his friend, "this is good for you. You'll learn to ignore their thoughts again. You'll learn to let them see you as you are. You taught me to not let how I feel about myself cloud my view on how others would see me. They're only kids, Charles. If they don't judge me, they sure as hell won't judge you. And as for blocking them out; you've done it before. You know can do it, you just have want to!"

It was the first time Charles had heard Hank speak so passionately about anything but science, but the effect was completely lost on him for the moment. He simply hissed at his former student, _"Don't make me go in there!" _desperation and aguish etched into every inch of his face.

Hank nodded slowly, "Ok," he breathed, trying to sound soothing, "Ok, tell me what I can do."

Charles inhaled shakily, "Get it for me."

"Get what?"

"_It."_

Hank recoiled, pulling his hand away from Charles and drawing himself up to his full height again.

"No way. I'm not doing that! Relapses are very common, but I promise you, once you get in there…"

"I won't go overboard again. But I _need _it right now-" Hank opened his mouth to protest, but Charles cut him short.

"Get it," Charles snarled, knowing full well that Hank was right and feeling himself sinking deeper and deeper into new lows, "or I won't teach. Or I won't _be able to_."

Hank's face fell and he rolled his eyes in incertitude. He refuse to act as an enabler to Charles, and yet he wanted him to return back to regular life at any cost, even it meant slowly, by degrees. The bestial young man nodded his reluctant consent, and Charles finally managed to calm himself as Hank jogged upstairs to retrieve the one thing that would save him from the agony of crippling insecurity. He knew he shouldn't have forced the decision on Hank, and he could not help but admit to himself that he had been in the wrong to do so. He wished everything could be as it once was; he wished he could rise and race Beast around the house as they had done just a few months ago; he wished he could feel like himself again; most of all, he wished Raven was back at his side, and that he could call out to Erik for help. But none of these desperate fantasies could ever be realized, so Charles contented himself with the satisfying wave he felt as he inserted the hypodermic needle into his forearm, ignoring Hank's torn and disapproving face. Charles knew he shouldn't be relapsing like this. And, someday, he hoped he would see the error in his ways and find the strength within himself to change them for good, but, for now, dull the pain and hope for better days to come was all that he could do.

_I can feel the darkness coming  
>And I'm afraid of myself<br>Call my name and I'll come running  
>'Cause I just need some help <em>

**Author's Note: Ok, so I know the ending was a little queer and depressing, but basically, I wanted it to fit to the end of the song, so a completely happy ending was out of the question. I wanted them just to go back to their old ways (besides, Erik needs to end up in prison somehow), the distance between them slightly lessened in the light of newfound forgiveness.  
>Oh, and <em>Wir sind da<em> means_ we're there._ Just though I should clarify that.  
>On an entirely different note, I'm absolutely chuffed that I managed to finish a whole chapter story. Yeah, I know it was only five chapters- I didn't have any more verses, sadly- but it's still a bit of breakthrough for me.<br>Now, there's a little button a bit further down... yep, yep, that's the one. Now give it a click and leave a review ;-)  
>Tonnes of love,<br>Blue-eyes Thropp xxx**


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